Cooking

I love cookbooks. I never cook from half the ones I own, but I’m not giving up collecting them. I love reading the directions, absorbing the technique, and imagining how everything would smell and taste, and, most of all, make me feel. 

Mostly I just love thinking about food. I get up in the morning thinking about what I’m going to eat in the day, not necessarily so I can get started early with it, but so I can look forward to it. I annoy my husband on vacations, because we have barely finished one meal before I’m trying to nail down the next one. I love both fancy restaurants and popcorn in front of the TV. I want all of it.

After working all day, cooking is satisfying to the senses. The bright white of the cheese as I grate it into soft, curling tendrils; the comforting scent of celery, onion, and green pepper cooking in butter; the sharp sizzle of chicken hitting the oil; the bite of one last twist of pepper over the pasta; the intense green of just-roasted broccoli--all of it is delicious. 

I like cooking. I really do. But it’s been seven weeks since I got food from a restaurant, and I have done a lot of cooking. I’m in a hurry now, as we are always quarantine hungry, and I peel and chop in double time, barking orders at my sous chef husband. I want it to taste good, but I also just want it done so we can eat it. 

Tonight, my husband decided it was time our daughter started helping with food instead of just the dishes. He put our family playlist on the speakers while she peeled an onion, stirred the chicken, salted the vegetables to roast, poured the sauce over the meat. She asked a million questions as she tried to grind the pepper evenly. And she laughed as she seasoned vegetables, smiled as she peeled her onion, and laughed some more as she poured the sauce. 

Beside her, I chopped as quickly as I could, preheated the oven, covered the rice, and snapped at my husband for not having the chicken on faster. She stirred and she laughed.

I do like to cook. But her laughter reminded me that the process is actually supposed to be fun, not just something to rush through for the result. Teaching her to make a meal reminded me of the delight always inherent in creation, and pretty soon, I was dancing, as the music swirled around us and fantastic aromas rose from the stove. 

I’m not a natural dancer at all and it’s safe to say that no one appreciated my skills, but I busted a move right there in the middle of the kitchen while we all cooked together, and I joined my daughter in laughing. 

Sometimes I forget what a gift it is to create anything, especially with your favorite people. I love cooking, and love leads to joy, which can, when you’re lucky, lead to dancing.